


Ancient Cultivars

by wingstocarryon (hollyrowan)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Bondage, Crying, Dissociation, I was thinking about how we haven't really seen Cas cry, M/M, Painplay, Trauma, consensual non verbal negotiation, good old panic trope, past possession, this happened, undernegotiated bdsm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyrowan/pseuds/wingstocarryon
Summary: Cas is crying for the first time, and Sam is not sure he wants to be there.*Sam put the purple carrots on the table.“Cas,” he said slowly, “is this the first time you’ve -- you know… uh...” Cas stared at him, his eyes welling over. “...Cried?” he finished lamely.“My vessel has never done this before,” said Cas.“Oh,” said Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of semi standalone stories or vignettes about Sam and Cas after Casifer. The first chapter was written as a complete story. Later chapters are vignettes that build on it. You will not find any cliffhangers here but more will be added as the mood strikes.

Sam had beer and some kind of locally ground coffee and heirloom carrots from the farmer’s market. The carrots were purple and yellow and orange, an ancient variety. He’d left Dean in town having a “philosophical discussion” with the local barmaid and he’d hitched back along the highway and then walked. He was feeling good. Fit on his feet again, for the first time since the stint in solitary. It was a sunny day. It wasn’t often, he reflected, that he got this much sun when they weren’t on the road.

He wasn’t expecting the sight that met him when he walked into the bunker’s kitchen and saw Cas sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. 

“Uh,” said Sam, backpedalling. “You okay? Shall I --” he gestured with his thumb towards the door. “I’ll just --”

Cas looked up. His face was wet and his eyes were red and puffy and as Sam watched, two tears slid down his cheeks and he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his trench coat. He looked exhausted and frustrated and a little bewildered.

“Sam,” he said, meeting Sam’s eyes and then glancing away. His voice was thicker than usual, hoarse and gravelly. After a long moment he said, “It just keeps happening.” 

“Uh,” said Sam eloquently. Then his brain caught up. “Cas,” he said, slowly and calmly. “What keeps happening?”

“This,” said Cas with a shuddering breath, indicating his face.

“The... crying?” said Sam.

Cas nodded.

“Is it a spell?” said Sam. “You haven’t been rummaging through old Men of Letters boxes or something have you?”

“No,” Cas ground out.

“Okay,” said Sam. “Um. Did something else happen?” Worry constricted his heart. “Is it Dean? Is Dean --”

“He’s fine, everything’s f-fine,” said Cas. “Nothing h-happened.” Sam breathed easily again. It was too soon, after everything. It was always too soon. 

“I didn’t mean to --scare you,” said Cas.

“‘S’okay,” said Sam.

“I can’t,” said Cas. “It just. It just started and it w-won’t stop.”

He sounded bewildered. Something in Sam wanted to laugh except that Cas looked frightened. Cas sniffed and another tear fell onto the tabletop and Sam’s heart caught painfully. 

He put the purple carrots on the table.

“Cas,” he said slowly, “is this the first time you’ve -- you know… uh...” Cas stared at him, his eyes welling over. “...Cried?” he finished lamely.

“My vessel has never done this before,” said Cas.

“Oh,” said Sam.

 

He opened the bag of purple carrots just to have something to do with his hands. “Look,” he said. “Purple carrots. Cool, right? Apparently they're ancient.” He felt so stupid. He snapped one in half and bit into it, crunching dirt between his teeth. The carrot was sharp tasting and good, a deep yellow inside despite the dark exterior. Weird, archaic vegetables. Cas was staring at the table, his hands clasped there on the tabletop, as if Cas was waiting patiently for something and not crying steadily. A drop fell on his closed fist.

Sam was usually good at this. Witnesses cried all the time. Dean cried. Dean had his own rules, but Dean hadn’t cried in front of him in a long time. Dean was his own thing. Sam was good at talking to witnesses who were crying. ‘We understand,’ he’d say. ‘We’re sorry for your loss.’ He’d say it. He’d mean it, in the part of him that was kept free for those moments, walled out from the rest. A sort of accessible cultivar, he thought, of sympathy, empathy. Some of the stuff he’d been missing during the Soulless year, but carefully tended. Set apart.

Magda had gotten past that, he thought. He’d been angry. That fucking family. But after they said goodbye it tamped down again. The anger. The everything. 

He wasn’t used to using any of this stuff around Cas.

 

He chewed and swallowed and said, “how does it feel?”

“Wet,” said Cas. “And hot. I feel hot.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Crying’ll do that to ya.”

“Have you wept before?” said Cas.

Sam was surprised. “Of course,” he said. “Everyone does.”

He was done his carrot. He put the green carrot top down on the table. His mouth was gritty.

“I haven’t seen you,” said Cas. His breath was hitching. He was breathing fast, Sam realized. His hands were clenched in their patient waiting pose so tightly the knuckles were white. Sam wasn’t even aware of himself getting up and moving around the table. He grabbed Cas’s trench-coated shoulder.

“You’re panicking,” he said. “Take a deep breath.”

“I can-can’t s-stop. The vessel it’s -- it keeps -- coming and now I feel -- dizzy from inadequate ox-oxygen.”

“I know,” said Sam. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine.” His hand was gripping Cas’s hand, he realized, holding on tight. He forced himself to ease it off. To pat Cas on the back. They should do something, he thought. Something else. Take his mind off it. Whatever it was.

“Let’s go… let’s go watch Netflix,” he improvised. 

Cas looked confused but nodded. Sam thought, whiskey, beer, coffee. Coffee. Cas waited while he made it, still breathing quickly. Sam used the new coffee from the farmer’s market. Sometimes Cas closed his eyes. He was still sitting straight with his hands clasped, like a schoolboy. Still crying.

 

Sam was weirdly aware of Cas’s presence close behind him on the way to his room. It was as though Cas was more of a person than usual. That sounded wrong. Cas was always a person. But Sam was used to thinking of him as implacable, someone Sam didn’t have to guard his words over or worry about damaging. Cas was a higher being than Sam. Seeing him like this was destabilized something in Sam’s world, knocking something loose. He felt dizzy.

They settled on the bed and Sam turned on the tv blindly. Some kind of historical documentary. A man in a stylish windbreaker was talking about the defensive measures of 15th century monasteries. Cas was a warm weight on the bed next to him. It was dark. They sat quietly, and looked at ancient walls.

Sam stole a look sideways. The light from the tv caught in the tear tracks on his face. Sam had never wanted to put his arms around someone so badly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.

“It’s a physiological reaction to pain or intense emotion,” said Cas. “Tears contain the neurochemical associated with pain. The body is ridding itself.”

“I meant the emotion,” said Sam. “Do you want to talk about that.”

“Why?” said Cas.

“People sometimes find it helps.”

“I don’t understand,” said Cas. “How can talking help a physiological reaction?”

Sam was silent. His heart was beating hard, and he wasn’t sure if he was excited or frightened. He felt dizzy for a moment, not sure where he was. “I used to be good at this,” he said wildly. “Getting people to open up.”

“Open up,” said Cas.

“Yeah,” said Sam.

Now Cas was watching him. Sam looked back to the monasteries. There was a garden in this one. The monks had to keep their herbs and vegetables safe inside the walls. Some of them were used for medicinal purposes. They could be dangerous, poisons. The man in the windbreaker was very excited about them.

“Sam,” said Cas.

“Yeah,” said Sam, except no sound came out. Just a puff of air, warm. Cas had a hand on Sam’s chest.

“Do you wish me to tell you,” said Cas.

Sam jerked his head, sort of a nod, sort of not. He didn’t know whether he wanted to hear or not. He did. But he was frightened. “If you want to,” he said.

“I was in the Bunker kitchen,” said Cas. “I was sitting at the table. And suddenly I wasn’t sure whether I was really there, or whether I was in my mind.”

Sam looked up sharply. Cas was in the edge of his vision, just a warm weight at Sam’s shoulder, and his hand still resting on Sam’s chest. Sam could still feel his heart beating too fast under Cas’s hand.

“I used to go there, in my mind,” said Cas. “When Lucifer was possessing me.”

Sam made a convulsive movement. He was holding Cas’s hand tight in both of his, not sure whether he was holding it away from his chest, or holding on. Cas drew back, pulling away, not touching him. Like he realized what he’d been doing.

“I tried to escape there,” said Cas quietly. “In my mind. I tried to escape.” 

He pulled in a breath, and then folded forward. He forced the next words out, as though each one hurt. 

“Is it that way for everybody who’s possessed?” 

 

Sam had drawn himself up into a ball, he realiezd. Drawn his knees up on to the bed, like they’d protect him from Cas’s question. 

Cas was looking down at the bedspread like he couldn’t bear to meet Sam’s eyes. Like he was too ashamed to look up. His hands were clenched together. It no longer looked like a schoolboy. It looked like prayer.

And Sam was frozen. The walls were down, he thought. Breached. It was too late. Some of it was poison.

“Fuck you for asking me that,” he said. “Fuck you and fuck him." He grabbed Cas’s hands, pulling them apart. Out of their supplication. Cas didn't resist and Sam ducked down to see his face. Cas wasn’t crying anymore but the expression on his face was even worse.

“Sam,” said Cas. “Oh Sam. You. And Jimmy --” 

He couldn’t go on.

He was still turning away, like he thought Sam would hurt him. Like he deserved it. Sam could hurt him. Sam could hold both his hands in one of his, pin them against the wall, punch him in the soft part of the throat, the windpipe. Punch him till his breath wheezed. Beat him till he was bloody, curling around his broken face. Cas wouldn’t stop him.

Sam tipped his head forward till it was resting on Cas’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s like that for everyone.” And Cas’s arms came up around him.

*

A while later they had sort of tilted sideways onto the bed. They hadn’t spoken. Cas had his arms around Sam, and Sam had a hand gripping Cas’s trench coat. The other was between them, curled against Sam’s own chest. A protection or a reminder, he wasn’t sure. When he thought about it he could still feel the phantom pain of Lucifer’s intrusion.

Cas’s face couldn’t be more different from Lucifer’s. His eyes were open, pools of darkness in the dim blue light from the tv. Sam could still see the tracks of salt on his cheeks. Cas breathed out, and Sam breathed in the warm air between them. Cas was warm.

Cas raised his hands and pulled Sam’s head forward, tucking it under his chin. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” said Cas.

A bitter laugh twisted its way out of Sam. He twisted into the bedspread, laughing into the fabric. “Fuck, no,” he said. 

Cas was stroking a thumb along the rim of Sam’s ear. And stroking his back. “I’ve been told it helps,” he said evenly.

Sam bit on a laugh again, and Cas stroked a thumb down his cheek. Sam shuddered under the gentleness. It hurt. It hurt.

He closed his eyes as Cas’s lips came down over one eyelid, the kiss pressing gently. And then the other. Sam said nothing, and Cas held him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam wants to say_ leave me alone, don’t touch me, _and also_ tell me what’s real, don’t leave me _and he opens his mouth but he can’t really hear his own voice. He thinks what comes out is just “Please.” And he would feel embarrassed about saying that but Cas is implacable. He's not laughing at Sam._

They didn't talk about the time Cas cried. Sam was relieved. They talked about normal things - cases and where Mary might be and where Kelly might be and where Lucifer might be. What Cas had done to Billie, to save them. Cas was stubborn about that. But whenever it got to where Lucifer might be Cas got twitchy.

They talked about what to watch on Netflix and what to get for groceries and where to get burgers. Sam researched sigils to add to the warding on the bunker. Archangel warding. They talked about that. 

They were taking it easy, getting back in the game. Sam went for runs. He was getting himself back again after the stint in solitary. It had been two, three weeks now. They found a case out in Missouri, and took a few days to go take care of it. A simple haunting of an old grain refinery. Salt and burn. Cas got a lead on Kelly but it turned out to be nothing.

Some of those things they talked about were related to it but they weren't it, itself. The thing they weren't talking about.

Sam felt guilty about it, though. He wondered if he and Dean had set a bad example to Cas. About talking about stuff. He decided immediately that they had and then banished the worry out of his head. What the hell could he do about Cas’s problems anyway.

But he couldn't help but see that Cas was restless. Twitchy in a way he never was before. For one thing, he paced.

Sam could see it unnerving Dean. The first time Dean mentioned it, they were in the War Room the day after they got back from the salt and burn and Sam was tidying the library and Dean was drinking and reading bits of online tabloids to Sam out loud. This was just something that Sam and Dean did - tabloids are good ways of looking for cases and there’s a heck of a lot of alien babies, gravity wells, and boob jobs gone wrong to trawl through before you get to the actual haunting. They inevitably ended up inflicting the worst articles on each other. This time Dean was reading a conspiracy theory involving Pamela Anderson’s breasts being incubators for a rare insect and it was _disgusting_ and Dean was getting a perverse satisfaction from being his usual pain in the ass self and making Sam hear all about what could happen if _they pop, dude. Look at the picture._

Cas came in and started pacing. He paced for a good five minutes. Dean had moved on to alien porn stars, the usual, before pushing the laptop away, turning to Cas and going “Dude. What is up with you?”

Cas jumped like he wasn’t even aware of where he was and Dean said “You’re all…” he waved his hand to indicate _motion_ “pacing” he finished. It was true. Motion was what was different about Cas right now. Motion and preoccupation. Cas was usually still, and present.

Cas said “I am sorry Dean if I was distracting you,” and looked troubled and headed out of the room.

Sam listened and realized he could hear Cas pacing in the hall. He looked to Dean to see if Dean heard it too, and Dean gave him an unnerved “What the hell?” look. Sam just shrugged. He hoped the shrug was nonchalant. He wasn't going to be the one to bring up Cas’s issues to Dean. He wasn't even bringing them up to Cas. 

He wasn't even bringing them up to himself. That’s what he told himself.

 

Four days later, after another midnight nightmare, Sam came out into the kitchen to get himself water. He’d woken up. He’d had a dream and he’d woken up and now he didn’t want to be in his dark enclosed bedroom anymore. The dream was still clinging to him and the unreality of it was a whine at the back of his mind, a note of wrongness in everything he looked at. He wanted to feel real desperately but it was a dim hope.

He was in the kitchen splashing cold water on his face, turning on the light, squinting at the counter and the fridge (wrong, wrong, everything was wrong), trying not to hyperventilate, wanting to close his eyes but knowing that there wouldn’t be any escape from the wrongness in every flash of colour in his closed eyelids...

He looked up and Cas was standing in the door to the kitchen.

Sam flinched. He could feel it happen and he had no control over it. The unreality was on everything including Cas and _what if Cas is not Cas_ some traitorous voice in the back of his head said and then _he’s been acting odd._

“Sam?” Cas said, his voice buzzing in Sam’s ears. “Are you alright?”

Sam wanted to say _leave me alone, don’t touch me,_ and also _tell me what’s real, don’t leave me_ and he opened his mouth but he couldn’t really hear his own voice. He thought what came out was just “ _Please.”_ And he would feel embarrassed about saying that but Cas was implacable. He wasn’t laughing at Sam.

Cas came into the room slowly, circling in a way that let Sam back away as Cas goes to the sink and Sam realized at the last moment that he’d left the water running. Cas shut off the tap. And then look at Sam.

When he felt like this Sam usually did something familiar. A routine. Cleans his guns, that’s the thing that he usually did. His gun was in his room, in the drawer of the bedside table and the cleaning stuff was in the war room. He could do that.

Cas was standing a few feet away. Watching Sam. He wasn’t pacing. He was still. “What do you need, Sam?” said Cas.

 _I need you to touch me, tell me this is real,_ he wanted to say, and also _don’t touch me, stay away, stay away._ He hunched forward, huffing on a laugh. Curled over himself. _Make up your damn mind._

“The cleaning kit in the war room,” he said. “Can you get it?” He wasn’t sending maybe-Cas for his gun. Cas nodded and went and Sam got the gun himself.

Back in the kitchen Cas looked worried when he saw Sam with it but Sam just sat at the kitchen table and unloaded it and stripped it. His fingers fell into the familiar pattern. He opened the kit and took out the rag and grease. It smelled like grease and oil and the gun had the usual sharp smell of steel.

Cas sat down across from Sam and watched. He was completely still, and he watched every move. Sam field stripped and reassembled the gun thirty-nine times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments on the first part of this. You inspired me to play with it some more. 
> 
> This part is short and inconclusive, and sort of doesn't live up to the first part, but that's just how this fic is going to be sometimes. I want them to get in bed together and cuddle. Sam's issues have other plans.
> 
> How long does it take to disassemble, clean, and reassemble a gun?
> 
> As always, any and all comments are eaten by yours truly because she loves them so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You want me to do this?” said Sam, looping the belt in one hand._
> 
> _“Yes,” said Cas. “Please, Sam.”_
> 
> _“Yeah,” said Sam, and Cas felt Sam’s hand rest on the top of his head for the briefest of moments. He wanted it to stay there. But he felt Sam’s free hand close around his throat and then Sam was pushing him down onto the bed._
> 
> (Please note updated tags)

“Shh,” said Sam. “Shh, Cas, it’s okay.”

He wouldn’t be caught dead saying these things in the light of morning. But Cas was here in the dark, nothing but a dim shape. He’d stumbled into Sam’s room in the middle of the night in this state. Sam had barely been sleeping, because Sam barely slept; he’d been awake the moment Cas had turned the doorknob.

Cas had just got back last night. After the salt and burn he'd taken off, looking for Kelly, looking for Lucifer. He'd only been gone three days but his absence had seemed bigger than usual to Sam. Sam had spent the time drawing up the new archangel sigils and looking for cases. Cas had come back to report no sign of Lucifer or Kelly but that Crowley was acting off.

Sam and Dean had drunk some beers and knocked around theories on Crowley, and Cas had seemed fine. As fine as Cas seemed these days, anyway. He’d gone with Dean to get groceries, had driven part way there and Dean had been bitching to him about how he rode the clutch. Cas still missed his old Continental. Sam had said he could drive a bunker car if he wanted to look like a damn curiosity from the 50s instead of that red truck but Cas flashed his old fake driver’s licence, the one Sam had made him at a kinko’s years ago, and said he was perfectly capable of driving stick. Dean had cracked jokes about that all night.

Cas had been normal.

But now Sam was out of bed, standing in the dark gripping Cas’s shoulder, listening to him breathe. Or not breathe, as the case may be.

Sam put a hand on Cas’s chest. Rising and falling too fast.

“Shh,” Sam said. “Hey now, it’s okay.”

Cas was wearing a tee shirt that had once been Dean’s, soft and frayed with age, because Dean had once told him to not be a freak for once and wear something comfortable at night and Cas had complied. He didn’t look more comfortable in it. In the light from the corridor Sam could see the movement of his chest through the thin fabric as Cas gulped in air. He looked more human than usual, sweaty and scared and mortal, and Sam knew at the same time that he wasn’t, wasn’t human, was Cas. Something was thrumming in Sam’s veins, something he didn’t want to look at too closely.

“It’s panic,” said Sam. He remembered Cas’s words about tears. “It’s the body’s physiological response to fear,” he said. “Your fight or flight system is going into overdrive. It’s not going to kill you. You just need to breathe.”

“Breathe,” panted Cas.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Slower than that. Come on. Deep breath in.” He pulled in an exaggerated breath, glad down to his soul that Dean wasn’t here to witness this. The comments about bendy yoga instructors after that stint at the spa would be nothing in comparison.

“It’s not - it’s not working,” panted Cas. He dropped his head and Sam saw the line of sweat at the back of his neck and his shoulders heaving and after a moment’s thought Sam tightened his grip and dug his nails into Cas’s skin.

Cas made a noise of surprise.

Sam twisted his nails, pinching hard enough to bruise, and Cas looked up at him, the slight strain of pain and surprise visible on his face. Then he was pushing into it, pushing back. They were face to face, breathing each other’s breath.

“That’s it,” said Sam. “Breathe.”

He let go and Cas’s head tilted forward, bumping against Sam’s shoulder and he put his hand up to his chest, touching experimentally. Sam could see glimpses of his expression, that curious wonder that was so Cas. Sam wanted, fuck he wanted so badly to put his hands on Cas’s chest where the skin must be red under his shirt.

“Do that again,” said Cas.

Sam couldn’t stop himself from touching. Cas’s shoulder, his neck. He would never be caught dead in the morning with this. He would never be caught dead.

“I can’t feel -- I can’t feel my body,” said Cas.

“Your body,” said Sam, his thumbs stopping their gentle rubbing. He let some mocking cruelty slip into his voice. “ _Your_ body?”

Cas flinched, full on. Pulled into himself, looking away. Like a schoolkid trying to avoid the teacher’s gaze, ashamed. Something dark and hot slipped into Sam’s belly.

“You want me to help you?” said Sam. He could feel the darkness coiling tight, the part of him that liked this. He tried not to fight it.

“Yes,” ground out Cas.

He let go of Cas and stepped back, running his hand through his hair. Cas wanted this. This was gonna help Cas. Don’t think about the rest. Don’t think.

It swept through him, the dark, hot feeling, turning him alive to this. Turning him alive.

“Sit down on the bed,” said Sam. He could feel his voice low in his throat, grating. And then, “Take off your shirt.”

Cas obeyed.

He moved to the bed and sat down. He was clumsy pulling the shirt over his head, as though he didn’t undress very often. Sam didn’t stop himself from watching.

The reddish light from the hallway hit the curve of Cas’s back and then settled across each vertebrate as he straightened back up. Skin and bones look so fragile, belying the angel underneath.

Sam shifted himself slightly in his jeans, and cleared his throat.

“Touch your chest,” he said. “Can you feel that?”

Cas ran his hand down his chest with exaggerated concentration. Through the springy hair that grew there, down his belly. Then back. He watched his hand, as though he didn’t often touch his own body.

“I can’t feel it,” he said, a touch of panic back in his voice. “It feels far away. It doesn’t touch... me.”

“Uh huh,” said Sam. He was close to the edge of the bed now, moving between Cas’s spread knees. “Don’t move,” he said as Cas’s eyes flicked up to his. “Don’t use your grace,” he warned.

And then his hand was in Cas’s hair, pulling his head back, and he was running his angel blade down the seam of Cas’s throat.

Cas went very still. He didn’t move a muscle as Sam teased the knife down to the hollow between his collar bones.

“You feel that?” said Sam quietly, scratching with the blade tip.

Cas breathed, shook his head, breathed, his eyes on Sam’s face.

“That?” said Sam, and twisted the point of the knife into his skin over one collarbone. Cas cried out in pain, his hands coming up to Sam’s wrist. Clenching Sam’s wrist hard enough to bruise.

“You feel that.”

Cas nodded.

“Uh huh,” said Sam.

Cas wasn’t pushing the knife away or pulling it closer. Just holding on.

“Told you not to move,” said Sam conversationally.

Cas shuddered. Slowly he let go of Sam’s wrist, pulling his hands back down, looking away again. He was hunched, like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Right. Yeah. Cas was. Cas was like that, then. Sam unbuckled his belt with one hand and pulled it out of the belt loops with one fluid movement. He flipped the angel blade in his hand so he could use it like a stylus and held the belt in his palm while he etched into the leather with the sharp tip. He could feel Cas’s gaze on him, all around him, like the light of a fire.

*

Cas was with Sam, and that made him okay.

Sam had said it was his body’s physiological response to fear, the thing that had happened to him. He’d been in the dark kitchen, and it had just happened. He hadn’t understood it.

He hadn’t known what to do.

Sometimes, when he was not sure what to do, his freedom from heaven seemed very frightening.

Heaven’s commanders had never spoken of fear like this. They were angels, and it was an emotion.

He had stood in the corner of the kitchen for a long time, while his body struggled to breathe. The kitchen had been there in the dark, even though he couldn’t see it. He had told himself that. But what if it wasn’t? What if he was somewhere else, hurting someone else? What if he just thought he was here while Lucifer --

Cas understood fear to have an object. He didn’t understand how he could be afraid without being afraid of something. Lucifer had not been there. There were archangel sigils all over the bunker, new ones Sam had spray painted only last week. Cas hadn’t been afraid like this when he’d gone to look at the site of an electrical strike in Nebraska, five dead, six injured. It had not been an archangel smiting but he hadn’t known that beforehand and he was not a coward so why was he afraid now? Lucifer was not here.

Now Sam was here. Sam was --Sam was with him. The multiplicity that was Sam was all concentrated on him right now, like the lights of the car when Dean flicked them on, all you could see. Sam was going to tell him what to do.

Cas waited. He was good at waiting.

Sam finished inscribing the belt and flipped the blade in his hand. Cas was very aware of the blade, too.

There had been orders involving that once.

Sam was looking at him now and Cas felt fear of a different kind.

“You gonna lie down for me?” said Sam quietly.

“No,” Cas said, bravely.

“You want me to do this?” said Sam, looping the belt in one hand.

“Yes,” said Cas. “Please, Sam.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, and Cas felt Sam’s hand rest on the top of his head for the briefest of moments. He wanted it to stay there. But he felt Sam’s free hand close around his throat and then Sam was pushing him down onto the bed.

Cas fought. Cas was an angel and he was strong but Sam was a hunter and he was armed. Cas was watching for the blade, trying to get Sam’s wrist in his hands, to prevent the blade from coming for him, but Sam wasn’t using it the way he should, wasn’t stabbing fast and hard, wasn’t stabbing at all. Wasn’t fighting like he wanted to kill or injure Cas.

Then Cas saw the blade and made a grab for Sam’s arm and felt the leather loop slip around his wrist and pull tight. As it did something caught hold, something more than the leather, and he couldn’t tug his arm out. That arm felt weak and heavy.

“What -- what did you do?” he ground out, but Sam didn’t answer. Sam was swinging for his face with the angel blade and he had to block with his free arm even though he knew it was a trap. Sam caught his arm and wrestled it down, and then Sam had Cas’s hands pinned to the bed and was jerking the belt over his other wrist and pulling it tight and wrapping it round and round the fulcrum between his wrists. There was a feeling of constriction, of bands tightening around his grace and Cas panted against it.

His flesh was touching nothing but leather but his grace could touch nothing, couldn’t fight and break him free. He recognized the effect of the binding sigil, but there was something else too. He was weakened. He tried to move his grace and couldn’t.

He felt Sam hauling him up the bed. He kicked and Sam grunted and swore and then Cas felt his useless hands hit the headboard. He tried to get up, to get some leverage, but Sam’s knee pressed across his throat and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

Dimly he was aware of Sam above him stripping off his own overshirt, the soft flannel slipping between his bound wrists and the bedframe grinding against his knuckles as Sam tied it tight. He tried to fight but he couldn’t breathe. He tried to move his grace, to oxygenate his blood but it wasn’t working and he couldn’t breathe, Sam had been researching protective sigils and he had found something, and there were black spots in front of his eyes and Sam was not allowing him to breathe. Sam was not allowing it. He let the black spots take the world.

*

Sam knew the moment Cas came to consciousness because his whole body jerked against the restraints.

Then his eyes flew open and he _fought._ Pulled and twisted and heaved against the leather around his wrists and the rope Sam had added to his ankles in the moments Cas’d been out.

It took him six whole minutes to exhaust himself.

“Sam!” he said. He sounded scared. Sam sat next to him on the bed and put a hand on Cas’s arm. Cas was sweaty with exertion.

“Right here,” said Sam quietly.

“I can’t,” said Cas. “I can’t!”

“Shhh,” said Sam, and put a hand on Cas’s chest where the scratches from Sam’s nails were visible. He pressed.

Cas gasped and pressed back into his hand. He couldn’t go far but he could do that.

“You feel that?” said Sam.

“Yes,” said Cas. “Sam.”

“Right here,” said Sam.

He leaned down to the floor without letting go of Cas and came back with the angel blade. Cas saw it in his hand and went still. His awareness of the blade, of Sam, beat against Sam like light. The heat in Sam’s belly clenched.

He threw a leg over Cas and sat straddling his hips, the blade resting easy in one hand.

“You gonna fight me?” he asked.

“No,” said Cas with typical stubbornness. Sam smiled.

“Sure you’re not,” said Sam. He leaned forward and his fingers brushed against Cas’s cheek as he gripped Cas’s bicep. Cas moved his head seemingly unconsciously, chasing Sam’s touch.

Sam put the blade to Cas’s chest.

Sam saw no fear in Cas’s face. Cas he was a soldier and Sam knew he’d been here under this blade before but this was different. Sam could feel him trembling, deep down. He braced himself and pressed the blade inexorably into Cas’s chest.

Cas’s whole body jerked, and then he was fighting. He was trying to reach down with his arms, trying to curl up, trying to protect himself, trying to reach Sam. He couldn’t do it and he let out a groan of frustration and then he was furious, pulling, trying to get to Sam so hard the bed creaked. Sam planted his weight to hold him down and Cas pushed up into his hands.

Sam pressed the blade deeper. A point of blueish light opened up and Cas _keened._ Blood was running down his ribs and the point of light widened and Cas was panting and jerking under him, opening the wound further, the muscles of his stomach heaving as he tried to push Sam off. It was so bright. Cas was so beautiful.

“Castiel,” said Sam horsley. Cas’s gaze locked onto Sam’s as he pressed up towards him and Sam couldn’t look away.

“You deserve this?” Sam said.

“Nnnnn” said Cas, pushing against the bonds.

Sam gripped the angel blade and twisted.

Cas arched, a sound coming out of him that was almost a yell, uncontrolled. The light of his torn grace was blinding and Sam was gripping Cas’s shoulder and his hips with his knees as they writhed. Cas was fighting to get to him or throw him off, Sam didn’t know, choking and throwing himself against the bonds. He couldn’t stop Sam or touch him. Sam felt the dark pleasure rushing through him and he was beyond hating himself for this, beyond fighting it and he ground out mockingly “Your body, huh, Cas? Since when has this fucking meatsuit been yours?”

He felt the words sink in. Cas went still with shock, and then he sucked in a breath and went limp, his head falling back against the bed.

“You deserve this?” said Sam, and Cas shuddered. He was drawing in deep breaths now, not fighting the intrusion of the knife.

“How did you do it?” continued Sam cruelly. “Did you listen to him in there, or did you wall him up in your mind so you couldn’t hear him screaming? After you took over his daughter.”

Cas’s eyes were closed now, his face against his arm. Against Sam’s hand.

“You think he ever really said yes to you?” said Sam.

Cas let out a breath that was like a sob.

He said, “Please.”

“Yeah?” said Sam.

“Hurt me,” said Cas.

Sam jerked the knife out of Cas’s chest and slashed a new cut up over Cas’s breastbone. The line was so thin it was hardly there until the blood followed. He turned the knife and scored it back along the cut, digging deeper. A line of light followed his blade and Cas cried out, his face pressed into Sam’s hand. He was gasping, breathing deep, gasping.

Sam scored down his chest again, again, again. Cas gasped each time, taking it, his breath hot against Sam’s hand.

“Did you hurt them?” whispered Sam.

Cas made a noise that was like a sob.

“Look at me,” said Sam.

Cas didn’t want to. His face was pressed into Sam’s hand.

“Look at me,” said Sam.

Cas opened his eyes. There were tears standing in them. He looked at Sam.

“I’m here,” said Sam.

Cas made a helpless, terrified noise and Sam was pulling the blade out of Cas’s chest and letting it tumble out of his numb fingers. He put both hands on Cas’s lacerated chest, not looking away for a second, leaning in, pressing gently against the wet wounds. They were both sticky with blood. He could feel every breath.

“‘M here,” he said. “‘M here Cas.”

As he shifted he felt abruptly that Cas was hard. Cas wasn’t doing anything, wasn’t asking for anything, was lying and taking it and not asking for a thing, and he was hard as fuck.

Sam shifted his weight back slightly, brushing against his hardness, and Cas was looking right at him and he looked totally overwhelmed. All Sam could see was Cas, Cas looking at him like he’d take anything, Cas waiting for anything, faithfully waiting. And looking so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak.

Sam’s nerveless fingers left Cas’s chest. Sam was tumbling forward and holding Cas’s face in his hands. He was holding Cas’s face in his bloody hands, his forehead pressed against Cas’s. Cas turned his head into Sam and trembled.

He was saying something.

“More,” he was saying. “Hurt me. Sam.”

“No,” said Sam. “That’s enough. Shhh. Shhh.” And he put his arms around Cas.

For a moment Cas didn’t seem to know what to do. He was trembling again, and he still looked overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what anything meant. Like he didn’t know how to respond.

And then he turned his face into Sam’s shoulder and began to weep.

“Shh,” whispered Sam. “Shhhh. S’okay. S’okay.”

His arms were around Cas. He was beyond holding back now. Cas’s back was shaking under his hands and Sam was shaking just as much. Clinging to Cas like they were victims after a shipwreck, rocking him, holding on. He couldn’t stop himself touching Cas’s back, his neck, cradling the back of his head.

Cas was saying something into his shoulder. He shifted to hear.

“I’m sorry,” Cas was saying. “I’m sorry.”

He tilted his head down till his mouth was resting against Cas’s forehead. He closed his eyes.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

He felt Cas shudder. The shudder went through him too.

*

They were sticky with blood. He felt the high of what they’d done come crashing through him and somehow he was as clingy as a baby.

After a while Sam reached up and unbuckled the belt around Cas’s wrists. It took some tugging to undo. Fuck, Cas was strong. He’d pulled it tight, even though Sam had tied it so it wouldn’t tighten. His shirt was half ripped but the rope he’d added as support was fine.

Cas groaned as Sam pulled his arms down. His wrists were bruised and Sam stared at them as the part of his mind that took over after hunts began to wake up and shout orders. He rubbed Cas’s hands and opened the fingers and made Cas touch each finger to his thumb to check the circulation. Cas could do it but Sam could tell there had been some circulation loss and Cas wasn’t healing.

Cas wanted to hold onto him but Sam had to get up and take the restraints off his ankles. He disengaged Cas’s hands gently, holding on to Cas’s leg as he crawled down to his feet. The ankle restraints had the sigils on them too and Cas wouldn’t be able to heal with them on, or at least Sam thought it would be harder. As he crawled back up the bed Cas was watching him blearily and his face was still wet but he’d stopped crying.

The reality that he’d made Cas cry seemed suddenly huge. He’d made Cas cry. Fuck.

He sat next to Cas and couldn’t stop himself from touching him. His face, his wrists. His chest, fuck, his chest was a mess of lacerations. He was covered in blood, it had soaked into the waistband of his pants. Sam needed to get up and get the first aid kit out of his duffel.

“Sam,” said Cas in his usual low voice.

“Gotta get the first aid,” said Sam.

“Sam” said Cas again.

Sam was back with a clean towel from his duffel and the alcohol. Angel blades were sharp but you never knew. Infection was a bitch.

“Ouch!” said Cas as Sam pressed the alcohol-wet towel to his chest. And then, in a puzzled voice that sounded too normal, “You don’t need to do that.”

“Course I do,” said Sam. “I’ve. You’re all cut up.”

“Sam,” said Cas, and his hand was on Sam’s, stopping him. Sam looked at him. Cas’s expression seemed very gentle.

“I am an angel,” said Cas with a trace of totally inappropriate smugness.

“I know,” said Sam angrily. “You’re not healing. I’ve done something to you. The sigils… they dampen your grace but they should have stopped working now they’re off.”

“You untied them,” Cas agreed.

“Then why aren’t you healing?” said Sam.

“Because I don’t want to yet,” said Cas. “Sam. Stop it.”

He pulled Sam’s hands away from the towel. He was holding Sam’s hand in both of his, and Sam thought stupidly that his circulation was good enough to hold someone’s hand, so he wouldn’t be crippled forever, at least.

Cas was holding Sam’s hand very gently.

Sam realized that he was shaking.

“I don’t,” he said.

“What?” said Castiel, in his deep voice. And this was all wrong. He should be looking after Cas. But Cas sounded relaxed, and okay. And he was pulling Sam down beside him with the strength that was too big for a human and Sam let himself be pulled.

He let his eyes fall closed and let the aftereffects rush over him. It had felt so good, and that was what was messing with his head now. He’d known it would. He was a freak that way, he’d been hard for most of it too. He wasn’t so different from Lucifer.

Something pulled him out of his thoughts. A noise. He opened his eyes.

Cas was _humming._

“Is that the theme song from _This American Hero?_ ” said Sam after a moment.

“Yes,” said Cas.

“Huh,” said Sam.

Cas still had his hand. He tried to take it back but Cas frowned and wouldn’t let him have it. Sam watched Cas’s thumb travelling down to his wrist and back.

“Thank you, Sam,” said Cas.

Sam held on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @Interstitial for being a very gracious and helpful beta, and for letting me get her hot and bothered with texts as I tried to figure out how to tie up an angel who really wants to fight, using only the materials available in Sam's bedroom.
> 
> This is the first time I've written or published something sexual-ish. If you don't count some non graphic rape. Um. It's been an open tab I've been fiddling with for WEEKS.
> 
> Let me know how I did.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't eat carrots without washing them. You could get sick.  
> However if you're going to eat carrots, the purple ones are by far the best. FYI.
> 
> Comments make me happy. I like to know what you think.


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